I sat on a bench once,
and the first thing
I thought of
was my love.
We’d sat
and joked and laughed
on a bench
once,
and for some
reason, this time
reminded me
The first thing
that came
was the thought,
like words
forming
a sentence;
I sat on a bench
with my love
once.
Next the image
hit me.
Eyes open,
alone
in a park,
seeing everything
around me,
I saw
her.
I saw
the way she sat
on my lap
and poked my
side to tickle me.
It didn’t work.
I don’t smile.
But
after the vision,
came
the feel.
Her warm
body against mine,
her cold hands
sheltering
from the wind
in my own.
Pleasant, calm,
soothing.
I wanted to be
there
again.
Memories make fools
of us
wanting to go back.
In the next breath
was the smell.
Filling my nose,
my lungs,
my body.
Her hair smelt
like blossoming
flowers eager
for the honeybee’s
touch.
Who gives a damn
if it was perfumed
by shampoo
or conditioner,
it was her smell,
on her hair,
with me.
She kissed
me that day,
quickly,
not so quickly,
her taste
was there.
Her feeling
was there.
The passion though,
a distant echo,
lost
to the tendencies
of time
and memory.
So I sat there,
alone,
on a bench,
trapped
in another time,
another place,
where I could caress
her face, touch
her hair, feel
her warmth, taste
her lips,
be happy.
My heart ached
it had not forgotten
anything.
I had forgotten
the loneliness,
but not
my heart.
I sat on a bench
once,
and the first thing
I thought of
was my love.